


Yes, Your Majesty

by Otoshigo



Series: USUK - Oneshots [10]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Amnesia, Crack Fic, M/M, USUK - Freeform, cardverse sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5921938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otoshigo/pseuds/Otoshigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America accidentally causes England to get amnesia.  So why not make the best of the situation... and tell England that he's the queen of a magical kingdom called Spades?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes, Your Majesty

**Author's Note:**

> Poking fun at amnesia and cardverse. Not that I don't like either, of course. ;)

The look that the Brit gave him was one of pure skepticism.

Then again, America had pretty much told him that he was the queen of a magical kingdom called Spades.

See, this came about when America accidentally gave England a small ( _teeny-tiny, like, teensy-weensy_ ) bump on the head when he not-so accidentally piledrived him into the floor during one of their scuffles.  And before you say anything about how this was totally unfair given how overwhelmingly strong he was, England was ridiculously scrappy and their wrestling matches tended to tie more often than not.

So it was only partially America’s fault that England now had amnesia.

Besides, all the other nations had left him _alone_ in the room with the guy when he just so happened to wake up.  And went through the whole amnesia freakout ‘ _Who are you?  Where am I?  Wait, who am I?!?!’_

Could he really be blamed that it was the _perfect_ opportunity to- how did England put it - ‘Take the piss outta him?’

“You know...” England started, still trying to wrap his injured mind around this, “this all sounds... _highly_ implausible.”  He gave a particularly suspicious look at the game of Solitaire that America had been playing on the bed.

“Your Majesty,” America said with the straightest face he could manage, “I know this is all a little bit hard to take in.  But you’re in exile from Spades in this world, in hiding from an evil force that’s trying to kill you to take over the throne.  As long as you’re here, everyone will be safe.”

“...Right,” England said, extremely dubious.  “And you know this because...?”

“Me?  Why, I’m your knight in shining armor, Your Majesty,” America replied, tracing his explanation with a bit of hurt.  “I left Spades with you to protect you!  I’m your hero after all.  You told me so yourself.”

England was hardly swooning.  More like he was looking at America as though he were crazy.  “But...” he started again, his voice going a note higher with distress, “I’m a _man._ ”

“So?”

“B-but how can I be a queen then?” England blustered.

At this, America let out a gasp.  “Your Majesty, I am _surprised_ at you!” he cried as he put a hand to his heart, the very picture of affrontation.  “That’s so incredibly sexist!”

The Brit had the grace to blush, turning bright red as he clicked his mouth shut.  That was all that he was going to say on _that_ matter.  Which wasn’t to say that he was done.  “Look, if we’re not in... _Spades,_ then where are we?”

“Place called Earth,” America replied, sensing the shuffle of feet outside the door.  The others must’ve heard their voices and were coming to investigate.  “Believe me, you think _Spades_ is weird?  This place is even weirder.”

When France, Germany and the rest came in and tried to explain the whole _Nation_ thing to him, America knew he was gold.

“They’re all _mad,_ ” England cried once everyone had left him and America alone.  (Basically, everyone said it was America’s fault England was like this and told him to take care of it.)  His face was pale and America was starting to feel a _little_ bad, but not really.  His hands gripped America’s arm tightly, as though the younger nation were his only tether to reality.  “Nations as _people?_   How can a single person be a representation of an entire country?  More importantly, _why_ do they think I’m the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland?  How would that even work?  Aren’t they all separate nations with different histories and languages and- Wait, how would I know all this?” he said, his panic dimming to a frown.

“You’ve been posing as England for a while,” America explained matter-of-factly, giving England a patient smile.  “You’ve had to learn a lot of really useless stuff for your cover.  And _I_ am posing as the ever-so-awesome-and-heroic United States of America!” he added, giving the Brit a Victory sign.

“...I see,” England replied flatly, unimpressed.  America assumed it was just because England didn’t remember how awesome he was.  Sighing, the older nation ran a hand over his hair.  “Alright, look.  I just want to go somewhere with some peace and quiet.  I assume that you can take me home, Sir...?”

Sir?  Oh right.  Knight thing.

“Sir Alfred, Your Majesty,” America replied dutifully, bowing down to kiss the top of England’s hand.  When he looked up, the Brit was bright pink.  Maybe he was going to go into another freakout or something.

Instead, England coughed delicately and tried to will the flush away.  “Right.  Sir Alfred.  Right,” he said, clearly not sure what to say.  “Home then?”

“Course.  Your carriage awaits,” America said with a grin, waving in the direction of the carpark.  England followed with as much dignity as he could, but then stopped short when he saw all the automobiles in neat little rows.

“I thought you said carriage,” he said, giving America a frown.

Wait, what?  “Oh.  Yeah, not real carriages,” America replied.  “These are cars.  See?  _Cars._ ”  He patted one on the hood and immediately set off its alarm.  Sheepishly, he quickly hauled England off to his rental and strapped them both in.  “You good?”

“It feels a bit claustrophobic,” England replied, a little green.

Hm.  America supposed that cars were kinda a recent thing for the Brit.  “Carriages smell worse though,” he replied, taking them out of the hospital and towards England’s residence.  “Plus there’s the whole- taking care of the horses, finding space for them, getting feed, vet visits...  Cars are way less of a pain in the ass.”

England made a noncommittal hum, but otherwise fell into a thoughtful silence.  America figured his poor head was probably hurting and just concentrated on the road.  It was pretty lucky that the world meetings were being held in London with all this going on.  Although England was going to throw a _fit_ when he heard that France was taking over hosting duties.  In almost no time, they spat out into the suburbs to the Georgian house on the Thames that England liked best.

“Here you go!” America replied brightly as they pulled up in front of the door set in the ivy topped brick wall.  “Okay, have fun.  Get some rest.”

England clutched his seatbelt tightly.  Face pale, he gave America a helpless look that could only be described as damsel-in-distress.  “You’re not coming with me?”

“Uh...” America replied, finding it unexpectedly hard to counter his heroic instincts.  Still he was pretty sure that England was going to snap out of it any second now and the Brit _definitely_ wouldn’t want him in his house uninvited.

England reached out, putting a hand on top of America’s own.  “Sir Alfred, please?”

After that he was doomed.

“Okay, just for a little bit,” America relented, settling in to park.

The inside of England’s house was much as he expected.  Wall-to-wall bookshelves and not a single TV around.  It was cluttered with piles of books that didn’t seem to fit on any bookshelf all across the floor and on top of the sofa and chairs.  Various mugs and tea cups littered the remaining free table space.  America even thought he saw some cobwebs dusting the corners of the room.  The Brit really needed to get Lithuania all up in here.

England was absolutely appalled.  “Oh, I, this is-  D-do I live here?  I must not have been expecting company.  L-let me just tidy up a bit.”  He went to the nearest pile and picked a book up.  Then he cast a look around the room and realized to his horror, “I have no idea where this goes.”

America doubted that had anything to do with amnesia.  “It’s fine,” he said graciously.  He tipped a chair and sent a number of books tumbling to the floor.  England let out a squeak of distress.  Grinning, America patted the now empty chair.  “Okay, sit down.  Put your feet up.  I know what’ll make you feel better.”

Reluctantly, England sat himself down, but immediately went to putting the tumbled books into another neat pile in the floor in front of him.

America, meanwhile, took the treacherous trek around the stalagmites of books and made it to the kitchen.  The kitchen was even more of a hot mess than the living room was with the remnants of failed cooking experiments spread out all over the counters.  Black bricks on one cookie sheet, purple slime in a pot, something green that looked awfully like a cross between salad and mold in another.  These were the monsters of his dungeon crawl.

America grimaced.  Okay, he knew he could get pretty bad when he went into gamer mode, but this was downright scary.  Sighing, he figured he better fix it before England saw it and died of embarrassment.  “Things I do to be a hero,” he muttered as he rolled up his sleeves.

Half an hour later, he came back to the living room with a cup of tea and mug of instant coffee.  (Turned out England didn’t own a coffee maker.)  “Oh, thank you, Sir Alfred,” England smiled, before he caught the haunted look to the younger nation’s face.  “Are you quite alright?”

America had seen things he could never, _ever_ , unsee.  “Yeah, m’alright,” he replied, washing back the bile at the back of his throat with his coffee.  “Anyway, are you set then?  Remembering anything?”

“Still a bit lost, I’m afraid,” England replied, giving America a sheepish smile.  He placed a hand on the book he had been studying, its pages aged and mouldy-smelling with a script America couldn’t understand.  “Oh, but I did find some grimoires and magical tomes.  I might be able to recover my memory with a spell.”

America scoffed.  “Seriously?  Magic doesn’t exist.”  England frowned at him.  “ _Here_.  I mean, here,” he backpedaled quickly.  “Spades, yeah, definitely.  But nobody uses magic on Earth.”

“Oh,” the Brit replied, his frown now tinged with disappointment.  “Well, that is a shame.  I just found a spell that would help to tidy up too.”  With a lamentable sigh, he put the book he’d been perusing down on the coffee table.  “Did you bring any milk or honey for the fairies?”

“The what?” America asked blankly.

“The fairies,” England replied, pointing to the empty space above their heads.  “They’ve been flitting about ever since we arrived.  They’ve been giving us the most devious smiles, as well.  I suppose they’re up to some mischief,” the Brit mused, studying the air.

America opened his mouth.  Then closed it.  Okay, so maybe he conked England on the head a little harder than he thought.  “Y’know what?  I think you’d better get to bed.  You’ll feel loads better in the morning.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” the amnesiac sighed, putting down his cup.  “Where would my bedroom be?”  America gave him a look that said, _How the hell should I know?_   “...I’ll find it,” England decided, wisely.  He rose to his feet, then turned and gave America an expectant look.

“...Yes?” America asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Your court etiquette leaves something to be desired,” England replied, quite put out.  “Should you not rise when your queen rises?  For that matter, you’ve ceased using the proper honorific for me as well.”

Riiight, the _Your Majesty_ thing.  Honestly, there were only so many times he could use it ironically before it started to stick in his craw.

“Sorry, Your Majesty,” America said.  _Sorry-not-sorry._   “But, you _are_ in hiding, so it’s a little dangerous to keep up with the formal stuff without making people suspicious,” he explained in a very rational tone.  “I think I’m just out of practice.”  It was _really_ hard not to crack up at that, seeing as this was so true in ways that the Brit didn’t remember.

“Oh... I see,” England said, still frowning.  “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

Internally snickering, America asked, “Why, do you _want_ me to be formal with you?”  He pulled on a hurt expression, leaning in closer with his baby blues.  “I thought we were closer than that.”

Once again, England inexplicably began to blush.  “O-oh, I see.  Right, yes, of course.  I imagine we would be close, given the situation.  I apologize if I have offended you in any way,” he said with a short nod of his head.  Suddenly, he winced, pressing a hand to his temple.

America was on his feet in an instant.  “Whoa, hey.  You alright?” he asked, putting a hand to England’s back in case he keeled over.

“It’s fine.  Just a headache,” England responded miserably, more tired and hurting than America previously realized.

“Well, bed for you then.  For _real_ , this time,” America decided, using his hand to guide England towards the stairs.  He didn’t trust England not to pass out on the steps, so he somehow wound up in the Brit’s bedroom despite all his best intentions.  “Here, just sit down, alright?” he said, helping England to sit on top of the bed.  “I’ll get you some jammies and aspirin.”

The Brit merely nodded, looking more despondent by the second.

Satisfied, America turned and glanced around the room.  The bedroom was just as stuffy as he’d expected, with paisley wallpaper, oriental carpets and a canopy bed.  There were _more_ books here, but just limited to a small pile next to the bed.  There didn’t appear to be a closet, but two wardrobes and a dresser drawer set.  America figured the dresser drawers were the safest bet.

However, the first drawer he opened contained undies and a very large assortment of dildos. 

America slammed the drawer shut with a crack.

“Are you alright?” England asked after him in concern.

“Fine!” America called back, his voice shriller than he liked.  Glad his back was to England, he hesitantly went to the next drawer.  _This_ one had a very odd mix of accessories in it.  They ranged from spiked collars and ripped skinny jeans to a ruffled white shirts and cravats.  No jams, though, so he moved on.  The next one was filled with boring button downs and sweater vests.  Fourth time was the charm as he found some satin monogrammed pajamas in royal blue with gold letters AK on the lapel.  “Found it!” he said, tossing the pajamas over.

England fumbled, but caught them.  He held the suit up for inspection.  “AK?” he asked, turning to give America a questioning look.

“That’s your name,” America said, wondering where to find some aspirin.  “Arthur Kirkland.”  He wandered off in the direction of the bathroom to try his luck.  When he returned triumphant, England was still holding onto them, touching the letters reverently.  “Hey, you gonna change?”

The Brit blinked, startled out of his thoughts.  “What?  Oh, yes.”  He gave America an odd look.  “Are you going to watch?”

America spluttered, “W-what?  No!  Of course not!  What kind of hero do you think I am?”  Flustered as all get all, he handed the glass of water and aspirin to England.  “Here.  Now, good night.”

“Wait!” England cried, catching him by the sleeve.  “Where will you be?  Down the hall?”

_Back at my hotel,_ was what America wanted to answer, but looking at England’s desperate expression, he didn’t think that was gonna fly.  “Yeah, alright.  I’ll steal a spare bedroom,” he sighed.  He was probably going to have to call his people to deliver his stuff though.  But that would require a _really_ awkward conversation, so maybe he should just forget it.  England was probably going to pop back to normal after a good night’s rest anyway.

He moved again, but the hold that England hand on him was still firm.  He turned, glancing at the Brit questioningly.  “I...” England started, awkwardly, “I wanted to thank you.  I know that it is your duty to protect me.  All the same, I am still very grateful.  So, thank you, Sir Alfred,” he said, his voice soft.

It was America’s turn to go red with a heated blush.  And maybe feel just an eensy- _weensy_ bit guilty.  “Wha-ha, this is nothing!” he exclaimed, tugging his arm away to join hands behind his head, letting out a too-loud laugh.  “A-anyway, I’ll tell you tomorrow about how I saved your butt in two wars.  For now, just go to bed.”  With that, he didn’t flee, but strategically retreated from the room.  “Man-oh-man,” he muttered to himself, wandering down the hall to look for the guest room.  “He better be back to normal by tomorrow.”

~o~

When America woke the next morning, it took a long minute or two before he realized where he was.  Pastel green wallpaper, floral pink bedspread, doilies.  Had to be England’s.  The events of the day past came back to him as he groaned and tugged the blanket over his head.  It was too flippin’ early to be getting up.  Stupid sun.  Stupid _timezones_.

That was when he heard the knocking at the door.  “Sir Alfred?  Are you up yet?”

Damn it, England’s head was still messed up.  Still sleep-addled, America pushed himself up to a sit.  “Wazzit?” he demanded.

Uninvited, England opened up the door, book in hand.  “I had a question about-” he started, then stopped dead.  Just as quickly, he stepped back out, slamming the door shut.  “Apologies!” he called out.  “I didn’t realize you were in a state of undress.”

Confused, America looked down.  The blanket had completely covered his lap, hiding away his boxers.  Which meant he was shirtless, yeah, but that wasn’t anything England hadn’t seen before.

...Oh _riiight._

Amused, America hopped out of bed and pulled on his shirt and slacks from yesterday.  He opened the door and found England still in an embarrassed huddle outside the door.  “Do ya like what you see?” he asked, leaning against the doorway and giving the Brit a wink.

“I- you-” England stammered, still not fully recovered.  “I-is that any way to speak to your queen!” he demanded, falling back into a temper as his default when he went into overload.  Good to see some things hadn’t changed.  The Brit coughed and tucked the book underneath his arm.  “In any case, I am feeling a bit peckish so I require breakfast.  We can speak more after you cook.”

“ _Wait a minute,_ why am I cooking?” America asked, straightening up as fast as a rocket.

“Well, surely you don’t expect _me_ to cook do you?” England scoffed.  “I hardly think I even know how.”

That shut America right up.  “Fine,” he relented, running a hand over his scalp.  “But I’m your knight, not your servant,” he grated out, heading down to the newly-cleaned kitchen.  At the table, he pulled out two bowls and filled them with cereal and milk.  “Here, breakfast,” he said, sliding the bowl over to England’s chair.  After making himself another cup of nasty instant, he sat down at the table.  “So, what questions did you have?”

Meanwhile, the Brit was giving his bowl of cereal a particularly dissatisfied look.  With a sniff, he sat down and tucked a napkin over his lap.  “Very well,” he said as he sipped some tea.  “First, I think the most obvious question is- Is there a King of Spades?”

“Nope,” America replied.  Granted, he could have picked any random nation and it would have been hilarious, but he was starting to get the feeling this amnesia thing was sticking around longer than he hoped for.  “He got killed by the Big Bad we’re in hiding from.”

England looked conflicted for all of a hot minute, before he prioritized on the very wrong thing and asked, “He?”

_Oh,_ this was going to be _fun._

Grinning wide, America nodded.  “Oh yeah.  He.  And _he_ liked to keep you very satisfied,” he said with a wink-wink and a nudge-nudge.  “You two went at it like rabbits.  Kept the whole castle up at all hours of the night.”

Another hot blush crawled over England’s face and the Brit looked like he wanted to die of mortification.  He curled in, his cereal forgotten.  “I- I see,” he squeaked.  He coughed delicately, trying in futility to regain some sort of dignity.  “Well, that’s good.  I suppose.  He, then.  He.”

America honestly wondered why England was so stuck on the gender part and not the assassination part.  It wasn’t exactly that big of a surprise.  “Don’t you want to ask about the Big Bad that wants to kill you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mm?  Oh, yes, of course,” the Brit replied distractedly.  “Are we safe from it here?  Have you been doing an adequate job protecting me from it?”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” America huffed.  “I’m an awesome hero.  I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”  A slow smile stretched along England’s lips that made the younger nation’s indignation sputter to a halt.  “A-alright fine,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I guess it doesn’t matter that much now.  What else do you want to know?”

Still smiling, England pulled out the book he had been holding onto and slid it across the table.  “Yes, another question.  Is this you?”

Warily, America flipped open the musty leather bound book.  Then he realized with a start that it wasn’t a book, but a fancy sketch pad.  Eyebrows rising, he saw a pencil sketch of what was undoubtedly himself as a small child.  Complete with bowtie, bunny and guileless smile.  He flipped to the next page and found another.  A similar age, sleeping in a field of wildflowers.  The next, he was slightly older, fishing out of a creek.  America gently flipped through the pages, watching himself subtly grow older until it abruptly stopped when he held his first musket.

“...I didn’t realize you had this,” America said softly, passing the sketchbook back.  England would have never shown this to him if he was still in his right mind.  It was both annoying and a little... sad.

“So it _is_ you,” England said with a triumphant smile.  He opened the book up again, passing his fingers along the edge of a sketch as he studied his own work.  “You were so adorable.  We must have known each other for a long time.”

“Ages,” America agreed, his appetite sucked down by his mood.  Alright, this had officially gone too far.  It was _completely_ unfair dragging his childhood into this, well meaning or not.  He was about to say something, when England suddenly asked:

“So, how did you become a hero?”

Next thing America knew, it was lunch time and they were eating chinese delivery and he was telling England about his escapades in the Spanish-American War.  With some details fudged to be more Spades-esque of course.  Before he knew it, he’d run his mouth off and England essentially turned into the queen of the United States and United Kingdom, which was an empire that was semi-permanently on the brink of war with the empires of Hearts, Clubs and Diamonds, which was pretty much the Axis, the Soviet Union and those darn Frenchies.

“Oh crap!” America cried, when he realized what happened.

England gave him a blank look.  “What?  What’s wrong?”

“Uhhh, nothing.  Just realized the time,” America replied, looking up at the clock.  It was the middle of the world meetings, but the other nations had given them a pass due to England's ‘ _delicate condition_ ’.  However, he was starting to think England ought to be getting back to routine as quick as possible.  “Look, I think we need to get back to things to maintain your cover.  Thankfully people all know you've got amnesia so you don't need to sweat the details.  Just _don't_ let anyone know about the whole Spades thing, okay?”

“Agreed,” England replied grimly.  “Although do you believe it wise to let me handle affairs of state?  I don't recall the nature of the interpersonal relationships I should be aware of.”

America thought about it for a second before he came up with a _genius_ idea.  He dashed out to his briefcase and grabbed his tablet.  Then he opened it up to Wikipedia.  “Here you go!  This is all you prolly need to know so far,” he said with a firm nod.  “At least to keep yourself outta trouble.”

England gave him a look that was even more dubious than when America told him he was a queen.

Undaunted, America slapped an encouraging hand on the Brit’s back, nearly knocking him face first into his chow mien.  “You'll be fine.  You're a _natural_.”

~o~

Okay, so maybe bringing England back wasn't as good an idea as he thought it was.  Not that he didn't know UK stats and facts off the top of his head.  He was great at that.

It was, however, a problem when America had to do his third heroic feat in the span of two hours when he saved England from Russia's cursed scarf.  The first had _not_ been being saved from being molested by France (that had been second), but from eating Thailand's food.  America wasn't sure England's poor, deprived tastebuds could have handled the explosion of flavor and spice.

Aside from that though, England sort of seemed to have a handle on things.  It made America optimistic that things would go back to normal by the end of the day.

Except when they didn't.

“Are you coming home with me then?” England asked hopefully as the nations departed from the conference room.

America gave England a pained look.  He was gross from wearing his clothes two days in a row, England's house was old and musty, England himself was demanding, and he just wanted to go back to his hotel and order some room service.  Preferably a steak and some bourbon.

But the look that England gave him was so goddamned _hopeful_ and _expectant._   Like he fully expected America to be the hero he proclaimed to be.  That he _was._   “Yeah, alright.  I need to pick up my stuff though,” he said grudgingly.  “Meet you out front?”

“Very well, I’ll see you there,” England replied cheerfully, heading towards the lobby.

Sighing, America pulled out his phone to text his people to pack up his things and deliver it to England’s house.  He spun around to get his bag from his table.

And nearly let out a very _heroic_ shriek when he saw Canada standing right behind him.  “God _damn_ , Canadia!” he cried, “Make some noise, why don’t you!”

Canada gave him a flat look.  “I’ve been right-  No, never mind,” he said with a put upon sigh.  “Anyway, what are you doing with England?”

“Whadya mean?  I’m not doing anything with him,” America replied, trying his best to hide his guilty start.  However, Canada knew him a little too well for his own good, as he gave his twin a suspicious look.  “Oh come _on,_ if England’s been acting funny it’s because he still doesn’t remember anything.  How is that my fault?”

“That is _completely_ your fault,” Canada replied bluntly.

“ _He_ started it,” America huffed, folding his arms over his chest.

Sensing he wasn’t going to get anywhere past America’s impenetrable defenses, his twin sighed.  “Fine.  We’ll let it go.  For now.  Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like I ever do anything stupid,” America replied, outright offended.  He reached past Canada and grabbed his briefcase.  Slinging it over his shoulder, he headed out to meet England.

~o~

“Are those men of yours aware of your background?” England asked delicately after America’s secret service buddies headed off.

Strangely, it had not been as difficult to get his boys off his back as he expected.  _‘Sir, taking care of Mr. England while he has amnesia is the most credible story you’ve told us thus far,’_ his SIC told him.  America was going to assume they were talking about the whole nation business, rather than all those times he ‘convinced’ them into going on his adventures.

“Only partly,” America replied honestly, pulling his suitcase into the house.  “They know they have to protect me with their lives.  Not that I need it obviously.”

“Obviously,” England repeated mildly with a small smile that left America feeling strangely bothered.

“A-anyway, don’t worry you’ve got your own little personal guard too,” America replied.  “I wouldn’t leave you halfway cross the world without any protection, y’know,” he added, giving the Brit a wink.

That England didn’t blush or get flustered in the least was annoying.  That the knowing smile grew was also a little bit distressing.  The Brit just hummed instead and turned on his heel to head into his overstuffed library of a house.  “I think I’ll take a crack at getting the house a bit more organized.  Would you mind preparing dinner?”

“I’m not your servant!” America squawked in response.  Seriously, _why_ did he tell England he was a queen again?  He shoulda told the dude that _America_ was king and he was the butler or something.  Except for being allergic to the whole king thing, it was a great idea.

“Of course not,” England agreed, smoothing down the younger nation’s hackles.  “However, it is an action that cohabitants would do for one another, is it not?  If you’re too tired, I’m sure that we can do take away again.”

“I’m not too tired,” America muttered, before he could stop himself.

“Grand,” England replied delightedly.  “I believe I saw a grocer’s around the corner as we were coming back.  Just wait here a moment.”  The Brit departed from the room and returned with what looked like a leather pouch.  “This should be enough to cover it.”

Warily, America took the thing and opened it up.  The pouch - now coin purse - was filled to the brim with gold doubloons.  “...Yeah, that’s enough,” he agreed.  Enough to buy the entire flippin’ store.  Jesus.  Not that he could even _use_ them.  Did he even want to know where England got them from?

Resolved to buying dinner himself, he slipped the pouch into his pocket anyway.  He _was_ getting kinda tired of explaining every little thing to England, so it was just easier to pretend.  “I’ll be back in a bit.  Don’t get into any trouble,” he warned, heading back out to the street to get some grub.

America returned about half an hour later with his purse not any lighter, but with a bag of the basics - steak, potatoes, salad, ranch dressing and HP sauce.  He couldn’t find A1, but he figured the HP sauce looked close enough and grabbed that instead.  When he opened up the front door, however, an avalanche of books nearly bowled him onto his ass.  He only narrowly escaped thanks to his lightning quick reflexes.  “Artie!” he cried into the room, groceries forgotten as he climbed over the books like a sand dune.

Sliding down, he found England buried waist deep in them with what looked like a Harry Potter wand in hand.  “I-I- I meant to double the shelving!” England cried as America easily pulled him out of the pit.  The books filled in his spot with a small _shloop_ like quick sand.  “I just thought I’d try a spot of magic to see if it worked, but something must have gone horribly wrong.  It must be this world throwing the spell off.”

America scoffed at that.  It couldn’t be _magic_ anyway.  Much more likely that England’s books got fluke shot by a stray alien replicator beam.  It was _science._   “I told you not to get into any trouble,” he said instead, watching the Brit blush.

“Apologies,” England replied, appropriately subdued.  Looking around, he frowned at the books.  “What do you propose we do with these?  We can hardly leave this as it is.”

“I dunno, burn them in the backyard?” America suggested.  At England’s absolutely _horrified_ expression, he amended, “Okay, okay.  Just donate them instead, jeez!  You’re the one who’s going to have to do all the pain in the ass work of going through them though.”

“I suppose that is fair,” England replied grudgingly.  “In the meantime, I think we’ll need to put all the extras in the spare bedroom.”

“Wait a minute, where am I going to sleep then!” America cried.  England looked away.  More specifically, he looked in the direction of where the sofa had been buried.  When he realized what the Brit was thinking, America cut in, “Oh, no, no, no.  I ain’t sleeping on the couch.  This mess was _your_ fault.”

“You’d have your queen give up his bed then?” England asked, his tone reproachful.  America fumed, wanting to scream that England wasn’t anybody’s queen.  And especially not _his._   After a moment’s consideration, England hummed and mused, “I suppose my bed is large enough.  You may share it with me.”

“Sorry, what?” America asked, his temper snuffed out by dumbfoundment.

“Yes, that is a good compromise,” England nodded decisively, completely ignoring the way the younger nation stared at him.  “You’ll join me in bed tonight.  Now let’s get all of these books put away, shall we?  Pip pip!”

It was only after they’d brought the ton of books upstairs, ordered in pizza, then fallen into bed in exhaustion, did America realize that he could have just gone back to his hotel.  It was the mere flash of thought he’d had in the sparse second it took for his head hit the pillow and to fall asleep.

~o~

The next morning was way, way more awkward.  When America realized just where he’d woken up, his entire body went cold and then very hot.  Which was weird, because England was already out of bed and getting ready for the meetings.  Plus it wasn’t like they hadn’t slept together in the same bed before, but that was when they were way more... brotherly.  And when America wasn’t aware that beds could be used for more than sleeping and building pillow forts.

However, England stepped out of the bathroom in a fresh set of clothes, looking annoyingly nonplussed.  He looked tired, sure, but that was probably from hauling books up and down the stairs all afternoon and night.  “I’m just about ready,” he said, knotting his tie with the ease of hundreds of years practice.  “You should get up.  We don’t want to be late.”  Then he smiled brightly, “I’ll make breakfast.”

“I’ll do it!” America cried, jumping out of bed with all awkwardness forgotten.

However, it returned in full force right in the middle of the meetings when France prodded his shoulder.  America turned his attention away from England who was frowning intensely at his notes.  “You look like you and Angleterre ‘ave been up all night~” the cheesy monkey grinned lewdly.  “Tell me, why are so tired?”

A not-so-heroic blush crawled evilly up his neck and onto his cheeks.  “We didn’t _do_ anything!” he hissed under his breath.  “We just shared a bed.  That’s it!”

Apparently, he was louder than he thought, because several nearby faces snapped over in his direction.  Including Canada, who gave him the most disapproving look he’d ever seen on his twin’s face.  Which was doubly impressive because that was also his own face.

“Ohonhonhon~” France cackled gleefully, “I did not say anyzing about a _bed,_ mon cher.  What _‘ave_ you been up to, you naughty boy?  Taking advantage of Angleterre while ‘e is indisposed like zis?  Why, zat is so unlike you.”

His heroic instincts affronted and more than a little frazzled, America had to set the record straight.  “Don’t be stupid!  I’d never do that!” he cried.  “I wouldn’t touch him in a million years!”

It was only after the fact, that he realized he’d shouted loudly enough to dim the speakers.  Everyone’s eyes were on him, including England who merely stared at him in shock.  Then in a horrifying moment, he realized what America must have been talking about and he grew very, very red and very, very still.  He gave up on his notes entirely, his attention focused solely on rolling his pen slowly between his fingers.

America’s jaw dropped, trying to backtrack instantly, but then realized that everyone was still staring.  Guilt gnawed at him as he sat himself back down and ignored France’s probing questions.  He knew he’d have to make it up to England as soon as they got out.

~o~

“You don’t have to follow me home.”

England said this softly and dejectedly, looking miserable as they departed from the conference room.

The wave of guilt was back in full force.  “I- England, that was just a spur of the moment thing,” America tried to explain quickly, his tone hushed.  “I was trying to make France back off, is all.  I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“So, it’s not true then?  That you don’t want to have anything to do with me?” England asked, giving the younger nation a skeptical look.

“What?  I mean... No, of course not,” America replied, after his got his thoughts back in order.  Pained, he added, “Okay, maybe.  Look, our relationship is _seriously_ complicated, okay?  Just thinking about it kinda makes my head hurt.  I mean, I like you- Don’t get me wrong.  It’s just that- um, being super close...?  I don’t know if we can pull that kind of thing off.”

“Why?” England asked simply, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Because-!  Because it’s complicated, I told you!” America huffed, not sure _why_ the Brit just didn’t believe him.

“Ah,” England said, his dejected mood returning as he wilted.  “I see.  We have a lot of baggage I am unaware of then.  I understand.  Then my offer stands.  You do not have to follow me home.”

Except that tone was making America feel less like a hero and more like the scum of the earth.  “That’s _not_ what I meant,” he insisted, taking England’s arm.  An action that startled the Brit out of his dour mood.  “Jeez louise, everyone’s taking _everything_ the wrong way.  Look, I’m your knight, aren’t I?”

Uncertainly, England nodded.

“So, I’m gonna protect you.  Especially when you’re all weird and vulnerable like this, okay?”  England opened his mouth to argue, but America cut him off.  “And don’t say you aren’t, because you nearly borrowed money from Yao for lunch and you _don’t_ wanna do that.”

The frown deepened, but at least England didn’t think to argue that point.

“And by the way, you _have_ money in your wallet.  It’s just not flippin’ gold, okay?”  Taking a breath, America pulled himself back, putting his hands on his hips.  “So I’m sticking around to make sure you don’t do anything dumb, alright?”

England bristled, looking so much like his old self that America wondered if he’d come back out of sheer indignation.  But no, a second later, the Brit smoothed himself out and replied haughtily, “Very well.  I shall take you at your word then.  I will allow you to fulfil your duties and escort me home.”

It seemed like something was still off, but America just didn’t want to bother arguing about it.  Except the ‘off’ thing lingered all the while in the car and probably when England got out of the car in a huff, only to go upstairs to slam the door to his bedroom.  America winced when he did it, pretty sure he was in the dog house without really knowing why.  Like always, when it came to England.

Sighing, he figured he’d deal with it, like always, by ignoring it since he couldn’t fix it if he didn’t know what the problem was.  See, simple logic.

Still... he did feel kinda bad about screaming that he wouldn’t touch England in a million years for the entire world to hear.  Literally.  _That,_ he could fix, instead of trying to figure out what was going on with England’s weird vibe.  Maybe by fixing dinner...

~o~

A couple hours later, America stood back to look at his spread as he beamed with accomplishment.  “Hey, E- I mean, Majesty!  Get your butt down here!  It’s time to eat!” he called, his voice carrying easily upstairs.  A few moments later, England appeared, looking haggard and grudging.

“Sir Alfred, I thought you said you weren’t my- oh.”  The Brit stopped short, his tired eyes widening as he took in the dinner.  It wasn’t fancy-pants by any means.  As in France would probably scoff at it.  But it was pretty darn delicious in America’s opinion.  On the table lay two perfectly cooked/rested medium rare steaks, baked potatoes loaded with real bacon, cheese and cream, pear and blue cheese salad, handmade garlic butter, and a loaf of bread made from scratch.  Oh yeah, he totally still had his colonial chops.  “You made this?” England asked with such astonishment that America only beamed brighter.

“Yep!” he chirped, holding out a seat for England to sit.  “Plant yourself down and eat while it’s still warm.”

“I had no idea you were capable of this,” England replied as he stood right where he was.  Which was true, because America never really cooked for him at all, too annoyed with the way he’d mocked American food as a whole.

“Well, I can, but I don’t most of the time.  Too much work,” he replied, impatiently tapping the top of the chair.  “But I figured I oughta do something special.”

The Brit hummed, a smile finally stretching across his lips.  “I see,” he replied softly.  In a brighter tone he added, “I think this dinner certainly deserves a nice bottle of wine.  I believe I saw some in the basement.  I’ll pick something out.”

“E- Ma- Artie, it’s getting cold~!” America whined after him, but the other had already gone.  Thankfully, he was only downstairs for a few moments as the chilly English air ate up the steaks’ heat.  When he returned, he had a dusty bottle of red that was going to need ages to decant, but also a small candelabra.  “Uh...” America said intelligently when he saw it, “...what’s that for?”

“Atmosphere,” England remarked, opening the bottle of wine and putting down the candles.  He lit them up with a long match and gave America a smile as he blew it out.

Right.  That thing that everyone said he couldn’t read.

“Uh-huh...” America replied, still stuck in the holding position of the chair.  England sat down primly in it now, across from America’s own seat.  Hesitantly, the younger nation took his own, suddenly wondering if he’d done something he didn’t mean again. 

“Here you are,” England said, passing over America’s glass.  “Thank you for cooking a lovely meal.  Cheers.”

“Cheers,” America echoed.  The wine still tasted eggy, but he downed the first glass anyway.  England was giving him a very weird look he was trying to ignore in favor of chowing down on his delicious steak.  “How’s the food?” he asked conversationally.

“Delicious,” England replied, though he’d barely touched it.  He just smiled over the candlelight, looking hungry.

“Oh yeah, what do you like best?” America asked.  Finally, England sighed and gave up the staring to actually eat.  He made several small appreciative noises, all of which eased the awkwardness in favor of a bout of giddiness.  Out of his mind or not, England was still enjoying his food.  He was _so_ never going to let the Brit live this down when he was back to normal.

“The steak is excellent,” England said, making the giddiness surge even higher.  “It must have been a terribly expensive cut of meat.”

“Nah, just a flatiron.  You just need to know what to do with it, is all,” America replied.  “As long as  you don’t overcook it.  You can tell just by touching it.”  At the Brit’s quizzical look, he said, “Here, I’ll show ya.”  Reaching over, he took England’s hand and manually pressed England’s thumb to his pinky.  “See, feel at the base of your thumb.  That’s well done.”  He moved the thumb to the ring finger.  “This is medium.  Next is medium rare and-” he touched the thumb to the index, “-that’s rare.  You kind of need to go in between rare and medium rare because the steak cooks a little longer when it’s off the heat, but you get the idea, right?”

“R-right,” England husked, though he wasn’t paying any kind of attention to America’s words.  His eyes stayed fixed on the hand that was pretty much smothering his own. 

America blamed himself really, for being caught off guard.

Without warning, England grasped his hand, tugging him nearly over the table instead of around it.  Taking advantage of America’s surprise, that _fiend,_ England yanked him into a very messy and awkward kiss.  “ _MMPH!_ ” America cried into it, before he pulled himself back with more force than the Brit could contain.  “Dude, what the hell!”

England licked his lips, his eyes almost feral.  “Oh, come now.  You cannot blame me for seizing an opportunity when I saw it,” he purred.

“You-!  But- but, you!” America stammered, his brain going on the fritz.  “You can’t do that!  Jesus, you’re being worse than France!”

“As if that comparison means anything to me,” England sniffed.  “All I know is that I’m available, apparently I like men, and I happen to like _you_ very much.  Now, we’re both consenting adults here, so I do not the see the problem.”

“No, no, no!  We are _not_ consenting adults!” America cried, putting his arms up in front of him like a fence.  “First, cuz you have about as much consent as someone completely drunk off their ass-”

“Amnesia is not the same as intoxication-”

“SECOND, I ain’t giving consent.  No way!” America butted in.

“Really?” England asked lightly.  He left his seat, shoving America’s chair back so that he could trap him against it.  He leaned in close, nearly nose to nose with America and he breathed softly, “Do you really feel absolutely nothing?”

America squirmed, feeling _something_ alright, as heat rose up his skin like a rash and it was as if his muscles _itched._   If England got any closer, the Brit was going to do something he was seriously going to regret and America wasn’t going to be in any mood to stop him.

England smiled, seeing right through him.  “Now,” he murmured, leaning in closer, “your queen commands you to take him to bed...”

America did the only thing he could do.  He grabbed the candelabra and conked England over the head with it.  The Brit went down like a rag doll, spilling onto America’s lap.  Catching him, America let out a sigh of relief.  United States of Awesome 1 - Crazy CooCoo England 0.  Heaving England up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, America said, “Alright, Majesty.  You wanted bed.  You’re getting bed.”

~o~

It must’ve been 3 AM by the time America came down from his adrenaline high to be able to sleep.  So he was still groggy when he felt a hand roughly shake him awake the next morning.  “Huh, whazza?” he mumbled, wiping some drool away from his mouth.  Bleary eyed, he looked up and found England scowling down at him, arms crossed with the most _‘We Are Not Amused’_ face America had ever seen.

At once, America bolted up in his chair.  “Artie!  You- uh... You feeling okay?”

“Artie, is it?” England asked, his tone dripping with venom.  “Not _Your Majesty,_ oh dear knight?”

America blinked.  “Wait... England, is that you?”

“Of course, it’s me, you great lummox!” the Brit screeched, throwing his arms apart into fists.  “Only because you nearly brain-damaged me for a second time!  And how _dare_ you feed me such a fantastic story to make me behave so- so- _ridiculously_!”

However, he faltered when a wide toothy grin spread across America’s face.  The younger nation jumped up to his feet with a whoop of delight and tugged England into a tight bear hug.  “Oh man, I’m so glad you’re back!  If I’d known that would work, I’da brained you earlier!”

“Will, you, let me go!” the Brit protested, struggling to get free.  Though not nearly as poisonously as a second ago and they both knew it.  “I am still quite peeved with you.  Your stupid prank was both outrageous and wildly inappropriate!”

“Says the one who jumped me last night,” America replied.

“That-!” England squeaked, blushing furiously.  “I was out of my mind!  You cannot make me accountable for my behaviour then!”

America blinked.  “Why not?”

“Because you- _You_ had fed me that hopelessly romantic story about following me into some other realm to save my life!” England replied tartly, “Anyone put in that position would be hard pressed not to swoon to have a handsome knight sworn to protect them!”

Maybe there were other parts of that he should have been focused on, but a grin spread across America’s face.  “You think I’m handsome?”

England went comically red, as red as a lobster, his mouth wagging as he made several inarticulate noises.  Then he went redder and madder and redder again.  “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” he shrilled, throwing book after book at America until he was well down the street, laughing wildly.

One of the neighbours peeked at the ruckus in the street through the blinds.  “Honestly, it’s that Kirkland House again.  At six in the morning!  I’m going to call the police this time, I will,” the older man blustered.

“Go to sleep, George,” his wife mumbled sleepily from bed.

Grumbling to himself, George rejoined his wife in bed.  “Absolutely ridiculous.  Why can’t we have a proper English gentleman for a neighbour?”


End file.
